Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [149]
THE triclinium was ablaze with the light of a hundred torches. A phalanx of servants stood behind the high table at which Pope Sergius sat, flanked by the high dignitaries of the city: the priests of each of the seven regions of Rome to his left; their temporal counterparts, the seven defensores, to his right. Perpendicular to this table, and just as grand, was another, at which Lothar and his retinue were placed at seats of honor. The rest of the company, some two hundred men altogether, sat on hard wooden benches drawn up before long tables in the middle of the room. Plates, ewers, goblets, and platters crowded together on the tables, whose cloths already carried the marks of innumerable spills and stains.
As it was neither a Wednesday nor a Friday, nor any other fast day, the meal was not confined to bread and fish but included flesh meat and other rich viands. Even for a Pope’s table, it was an extraordinary repast: there were platters of capons smothered with white sauce and ornamented with pomegranate and crimson sweetmeats; bowls of soup, filled with tender morsels of rabbit and woodcock swimming in a thick cream, giving off an aromatic steam; jellies of crayfish and loach; whole pigs larded with grease; and huge plates of roasted roe deer, kid, pigeon, and goose. In the center of Lothar’s table, a whole cooked swan was displayed as if alive, its gilded beak and silvered body resting upon a mass of greens artfully arranged to appear like waves of the sea.
Seated at one of the tables in the center of the room, Joan cast a worried eye over the extravagant display. Such rich delights might well tempt Sergius into dangerous overindulgence.
“A toast!” The Count of Mâcon rose from his place beside Lothar and raised his cup. “To peace and friendship between our two Christian peoples!”
“Peace and friendship!” everyone chorused, and drained their cups. Servants hurried along the tables, pouring more wine.
There followed a multitude of toasts. When at last they ran out of subjects for liquid tribute, the feasting began.
Joan watched with alarm as Sergius ate and drank with reckless abandon. His eyes began to swell, his speech to slur, his skin to darken ominously. She would have to give him a strong dose of colchicum tonight to prevent a return attack of gout.
The doors to the triclinium opened, and a group of guards marched in. Sidestepping to avoid the innumerable serving boys who scurried nimbly about the room fetching and clearing dishes, the guards made their way briskly to the front of the room. A sudden quiet fell as the guests broke off talking, craning their necks to make out the cause of this extraordinary intrusion. This hush was followed by a murmur of surprise as they caught a glimpse of the man who walked in the midst of the guards with bound hands and lowered eyes: Benedict.
The cheerful circles of Sergius’s face collapsed like punctured bladders. “You!” he cried.
Tarasius, the leader of the guards, said, “A troop of Franks found him in the campagna. He had the treasure with him.”
Benedict had had a good deal of time on the trip back to Rome to consider his predicament. He could not deny taking the treasure, having been caught in the act. Nor could he think of a plausible excuse for what he had done, though he had racked his brain trying. He finally decided that the best course was to throw himself upon his brother’s mercy. Sergius was tenderhearted to the core—a weakness Benedict despised, though now he hoped to use it to his gain.
He dropped to his knees, lifting his bound arms toward his brother. “Forgive me, Sergius. I have sinned, and I repent most humbly and sincerely.”
But Benedict had not counted on the effects of the wine on his brother’s temper. Sergius’s face crimsoned as he swung unexpectedly into rage. “Traitor!” he shouted. “Villain! Thief!” He punctuated each word with a violent thump of his fist on the table, setting the plates clattering.
Benedict paled. “Brother, I beseech you—”